


If I Ever Get Home (Looking Back at the Things I've Done Wrong)

by whisperedstory



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fix-It, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Getting Together, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29220903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: "I thought you'd be mad. I thought you'd yell and curse me out and hit me. You're just… quiet.""I was mad, incredibly so, for a while. I didn't deserve what you said to me and if you ever do anything like that again, I'll leave and this time I will stay gone," Jaskier says. "But if it's punishment you're looking for, then you won't get it from me. I know you, Geralt. You've probably already punished yourself more than enough."Geralt remains silent.Jaskier sighs and gets up. "I'm going to get some sleep," he says and then he bends down and Geralt feels a kiss being pressed to the top of his head. "Get some rest, too. You look like you need it as much as Ciri and I do, darling."———On their way to Kaer Morhen, Geralt and Ciri come across Jaskier, who is also trying to evade Nilfgaard's soldiers. Geralt asks Jaskier to join them—so he can keep him safe and, hopefully, fix what he broke between them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 832





	If I Ever Get Home (Looking Back at the Things I've Done Wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift) <3

The first time Geralt sees Jaskier after their parting on the mountain is on a small, deserted, dirt road. There are some farms around, but it's late enough in the year that nobody is out working the fields, and the closest village is just a blip on the horizon.

Jaskier looks different. He's wearing a dark cloak and the clothes underneath, while not quite _practical_ , look less garish than anything Geralt has ever seen him wear. There's a smudge of dirt on his left cheek and his face looks more gaunt than Geralt remembers. And yet, he's quite the sight—still as pretty, and still alive and unharmed, and Geralt finds himself releasing a breath, worry that has been gnawing at his stomach for a while now dissipating. 

For a moment they just stare at each other, until Ciri, perched on top of Roach, says quietly, "Geralt?"

Jaskier's attention shifts from Geralt to her then, and his eyes, already wide, grow wider. 

"It's okay, I know him," Geralt reassures Ciri quietly, giving her a tight smile, before looking back at Jaskier. "Jaskier."

"Geralt," Jaskier says stiffly, holding himself tall and tense. 

Geralt doesn't think. He strides forward, closes the distance between them and pulls Jaskier into his arms, holds him tight. "Nilfgaard is looking for you," he says. There are other things he should be saying, things like _I'm sorry_ and _I didn't mean it_. 

"I heard," Jaskier says, words muffled against Geralt's shoulder. He's not really relaxed, not hugging Geralt back, _exactly_ , hands resting awkwardly on Geralt's waist. 

Geralt pulls away, but he keeps his hands on Jaskier's shoulders. He looks him up and down, checks for any visible signs of pain or distress, but other than the fact that he's a little too skinny, he seems fine and his scent is normal.

Jaskier allows it and Geralt takes his time before giving a curt nod and stepping back. 

Jaskier's gaze flits from him to Ciri and Roach and his mouth twitches up into a small smile. "Cirilla, I take it?"

Ciri makes a startled noise and Geralt turns to give her another reassuring look. "It's alright," he says and turns back to Jaskier. "Yes."

"I'm glad you found her; I was wondering. I heard so many rumors," Jaskier says. "Where are you going?—Oh, silly me. you don't have to answer. It's not my business. Better I not know, in fact."

"Kaer Morhen," Geralt replies, without hesitation because he trusts Jaskier implicitly and he wants him to know that.

"Geralt," Jaskier admonishes. 

"Probably could have guessed anyway," Geralt says. "I want you to come with us."

"You want me to—" Jaskier starts and stops. 

"Kaer Morhen is safe," Geralt says. "You're… recognizable, Jaskier." 

Jaskier huffs and looks away. "Yes, well. That's hardly reason enough, I would say," he says and the corners of his mouth are turned down, his expression bitter and sad. "Life's blessing and all that."

"Jaskier," Geralt says, pleading. "I didn't mean that."

Jaskier's shoulders slump and he shrugs. "You didn't. But maybe you did."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't it?" Jaskier asks.

"No. Because I didn't mean it," Geralt argues. "Jaskier. _Please_." 

Jaskier doesn't look quite convinced, so Geralt repeats a soft _please_. Jaskier falters and nods, and Geralt feels relief flood him. 

Jaskier tugs his cloak tighter around himself. "Well, then. Let me introduce myself to your newest traveling companion," he says and brushes past Geralt. He stops by Roach's side and dips down into a dramatic bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cirilla. I'm Jaskier, master bard."

"Ciri. But Fiona when other people are around," Ciri replies, looking hesitant. "You're Geralt's friend. He's mentioned you."

"Ah. He has?" Jaskier asks, surprise coloring his voice. Roach neighs quietly and nudges him, and Jaskier strokes her neck and it tugs at Geralt's heart.

"He was worried about you when he heard Nilfgaard is looking for you," Ciri says, glancing at Geralt briefly. "It's my fault. I'm sorry."

"Do not fret, dear. You're not to blame for anything," Jaskier says and Geralt is happy to see Ciri looking a little more at ease. He goes to join them and briefly rests his hand on Jaskier's shoulder blade. 

"Let's keep moving," he says. "We can reach the village in an hour, if we hurry."

"Ah, that one?" Jaskier asks and points down the road to the smattering of houses in the far distance. "I've just come that way. No inn or tavern there, I'm afraid. And not very welcoming to travelers either."

Geralt looks apologetically at Ciri. He knows better than to make promises, but he'd at least uttered the hope that they might get to sleep in a bed tonight.

"It's alright," Ciri says. 

Geralt presses his lips into a tight line and nods. There's nothing that can be done about it and it's safer not to be seen in too many villages anyway, lest someone recognize him and connect the dots. They've traveled far enough north by now that Geralt isn't too worried about Nilfgaard still being close. Last he heard, they hadn't made it this far north yet. But he'd rather not leave a trail of witnesses, nor does he trust humans when there are bounties on all of their heads. 

But Ciri deserves a real bed and a decent meal and a hot bath every once in a while. She isn't used to life on the road, or at least hasn't been until recently, and Geralt's knowledge about humans might be limited, but he knows it must be taking a toll on her. 

Hopefully they will have better luck in the next village.

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier is different, his disposition matching his new outfit, more subdued and somber. As many times as Geralt had snapped at him to be quiet, he finds himself not liking it much now. He isn't completely silent, making idle conversation with Ciri as they travel, but there's no constant chatter and humming and singing. He doesn't get his lute out of its case to strum it while walking once that day and Geralt feels his agitation rise. 

A light drizzle starts that afternoon, the sky gray and murky. He notices both Ciri and Jaskier pulling their cloaks tighter around themselves, though neither of them utters a complaint.

Geralt leads them off the main road and towards a forest in the distance, where, hopefully, they'll find a clearing where they can set up camp for the night. Daylight isn't yet fading and they could travel for a bit longer, but Ciri looks exhausted and Jaskier looks like he needs a good meal or ten. 

Providing for three instead of two will be more difficult, but Geralt still feels nothing but relief at having Jaskier with them.

They find a clearing that's just big enough, trees and thickets providing sufficient shelter. Geralt can't hear anything other than normal forest noise and the distant gurgle of water, can't sense any presence other than themselves and small animals. 

"I'll go hunt," he says, once Roach is settled. "There's a stream nearby." 

He indicates the direction and gives Jaskier a brief look. 

"I'll refill the waterskins and collect firewood," Jaskier replies, and there was a time when they were so used to traveling together they wouldn't have had to say anything at all. 

"Take Ciri with you," Geralt says. "You have a dagger?"

Jaskier dips his head in acknowledgement. 

"So do I," Ciri chimes in, and Geralt gives her a small smile and a nod. He's shown her some basic moves, but there's only so much training one can cram into a couple of weeks of traveling. Jaskier, on the other hand, knows a lot more than he lets on. He isn't skilled with a sword, but he's vicious with a dagger and has no qualms using it if he sees fit. Geralt knows he can leave Ciri with him and trust him to keep her safe.

By the time Geralt returns to their camp, a hare in hand, Jaskier and Ciri have already returned. Ciri is sitting with her knees pulled up, watching Jaskier light the fire. She looks up when he approaches and smiles and he returns it, letting his eyes subtly sweep over both her and Jaskier to make sure they're fine.

He sits down with them and starts skinning the hare. "We have some dried fruit and nuts as well," he offers with a quick glance at Jaskier.

Jaskier hums and nods, sitting back with the flames now licking up. "I have some cheese, if it's still edible, that is. And some jerky, but that'll keep for a while, so we should save it," he says. "How far is it to Kaer Morhen from here?"

"About three weeks," Geralt says. "We've been sticking to less traveled roads and smaller towns, not taking the straight path."

Jaskier nods. "Smart," he says. "Are you using a different name as well? You're just as recognizable as I am, if not more so with all...that."

He waves his hand in Geralt's general direction and Geralt hunches his shoulders on instinct, even though he knows Jaskier doesn't mean anything bad by it. He's never uttered a bad word or insult about Geralt's eyes or hair, never said anything but compliments, in fact. But Geralt has seen him coo at beasts and monsters that didn't look obviously vicious, so that hardly means anything.

"Eskel," he says quietly.

Jaskier nods. "I've been going by Dandelion recently," he says. "And as far as people know, rumor has it that Jaskier has been sighted way further south just recently."

Geralt doesn't ask how Jaskier pulled that off—he has friends and acquaintances in the strangest places and he's more slippery than a weasel when he wants to be. 

"It's, ah, probably best if we tell people Ciri is my daughter when we're in towns," Jaskier continues, hesitant. "What do you think?"

"More believable than a child traveling with a witcher," Geralt agrees and looks at Ciri, who nods her agreement.

"I don't mind," she says sincerely and Jaskier smiles.

"Good, good," he says and falls silent again. 

Geralt finishes skinning and gutting the hare and they roast it over the fire and split the rest of the provisions between them. Geralt makes sure Ciri eats her fill and tries to subtly give Jaskier a bigger portion as well, but Jaskier just gives him a tight-lipped look when Geralt hands him more meat. 

"I'm full," he says and Geralt frowns, but doesn't argue. Guilt eats at his stomach and he can't help but wonder if he's to blame for Jaskier's weight loss, if he'd fallen on hard times and Geralt wasn't there to help. Jaskier might be well-known, but _Dandelion_ isn't and war hasn't necessarily made people kinder. 

  
  
*  
  


Ciri is curled up in her bedroll, fast asleep. Geralt wishes he had a wineskin to share with Jaskier to lighten the mood, but he doesn't and so they just sit quietly next to each other, Geralt cleaning his weapons while Jaskier stares at the fire.

Finally, Geralt can't take it anymore, this quiet version of Jaskier. 

"Jaskier. I'm… fuck, I'm sorry," he chokes out, voice thick.

Jaskier makes a quiet noise, looking at Geralt without saying another word, and Geralt knows he's waiting for more. He wishes he'd thought about what to say, laid out a plan for himself.

"I shouldn't have said what I said," he continues. "It's not true. I was mad at—everything, really."

"I know that, Geralt," Jaskier says, his tone careful. "But what you said still hurt anyway."

Geralt hangs his head, jaw clenched. He knows he hurt Jaskier, knows how deep his words cut the moment he said them and saw it written all over Jaskier's face, and in that moment he had wanted to hurt Jaskier. Wanted to push him away, push everyone away.

Regret came later, when his head had cleared a little, but the damage had been done and for a while Geralt had thought maybe it was better that way. Better for Jaskier. But then he'd been plagued by worry about Jaskier making it down the mountain on his own, about something happening to him on the road, being caught by Nilfgaard. 

He turns to Jaskier, hopes he can read the regret on his face because Geralt doesn't know how to put it into words. "I'll be better," he says. "To you."

Jaskier gives him a sad smile and nods. 

"I don't like how quiet you are," Geralt continues, the admission spoken in a tight voice.

Jaskier snorts. "I thought you'd be delighted."

"No," Geralt says and huffs. "I thought you'd be mad. I thought you'd yell and curse me out and hit me. You're just… quiet."

"I was mad, incredibly so, for a while. I didn't deserve what you said to me and if you ever do anything like that again, I'll leave and this time I will stay gone," Jaskier says. "But if it's punishment you're looking for, then you won't get it from me. I know you, Geralt. You've probably already punished yourself more than enough."

Geralt remains silent.

Jaskier sighs and gets up. "I'm going to get some sleep," he says and then he bends down and Geralt feels a kiss being pressed to the top of his head. "Get some rest, too. You look like you need it as much as Ciri and I do, darling."

The endearment makes Geralt's chest tighten. He doesn't reply and he doesn't rest. He keeps up a silent vigil by the fire, watching over Jaskier and Ciri.

  
  
*  
  


It's still raining the next morning, but Geralt feels less grim because Jaskier is singing. He still doesn't pull out his lute, keeping it safely tucked away in its case, but he sings when Ciri asks him to and then tells her stories about his most outrageous performances, which Geralt knows are mostly exaggerated, but they have Ciri laughing and smiling, asking questions. 

He forgot how easily Jaskier does this, drawing people in and spreading cheer. How he makes people forget about their worries and fears. He makes things easier, better. 

When the rain turns heavier halfway through the day, Geralt knows there's no sense in continuing their travels. They're wet and cold and there's no inn they could reach by nightfall, so finding shelter it is. 

They stumble upon an overhang with enough space for the three of them and Roach and Geralt makes sure it's safe before he ushers all of them under it. They change into dryer clothes, pulled from the bottom of their packs. The bedrolls are soaked, but they have one blanket that's only a little damp. Geralt doesn't really need the warmth as much as Ciri and Jaskier, but he knows his body heat will help, so he sits between Jaskier and Ciri, tucks them against his sides and wraps the blanket around all three of them. 

Ciri curls right up against him and Jaskier squirms for a moment, before he too gets comfortable, his cheek resting on Geralt's shoulder. His scent fills Geralt's nose—there are barely any traces of the fragranced soaps and oils Jaskier loves so much left, instead it's just his natural scent and the musk of days and days on the road. Geralt tips his head forward, until the tip of his nose brushes against Jaskier's hair, and wraps his arm around him a little more tightly. 

"Tell us another story, Jaskier," Ciri says quietly. 

"What kind of story would you like to hear, princess?" Jaskier asks.

"Tell me how you two met," Ciri says after a moment of silence and pokes Geralt in the side. "Geralt can help tell it." 

Jaskier snorts, sounding amused, and Geralt's lips curl up into a small smile.

"I'm afraid, dear, if you ask Geralt to tell the story, it would be over rather quickly," Jaskier says. "But I will tell you, and our dear witcher can chime in when he thinks I'm not being truthful enough. He's quite fond of doing that."

"You lie."

"I embellish, as any good storyteller does," Jaskier argues. "But anyway. The story, Ciri, of our first adventure together starts in Posada, in a rather shitty tavern. I was performing and let me tell you, the people of Posada, they're an unpleasant crowd. No taste in music or art."

Geralt snorts. "I thought they had quite good taste. They pelted you with bread after all."

"Shush, you awful man," Jaskier chides.

"Did they really?" Ciri asks.

"Yes, I'm afraid they did. The life of a traveling bard isn't always glamorous, not even for a bard as famous and adored as I am," Jaskier says, voice light and teasing. "And admittedly, I was rather young back then, just starting out, and hadn't made a name for myself yet. Though, really, the bread and the insults were entirely uncalled for, no matter what Geralt says."

"You were there then?" Ciri asks. "Did you step in and protect Jaskier?" 

Geralt huffs. "No. Just didn't have any bread to throw at him myself, so I didn't join in. It was enough encouragement for Jaskier." 

"Geralt," Jaskier gasps, indignation coloring his voice. 

Geralt turns his head a little, cheek resting just barely on the crown on Jaskier's head, and looks down at Ciri, who is biting back a grin. 

"Keep telling the story, Jask," Geralt says fondly.

"Ah, yes. So, there I was, just wrapping up my performance when I noticed a big, dark figure in the corner of the tavern," Jaskier says. "Just glaring down at the table, looking all gloomy and brooding. I'm assuming you're quite familiar with the expression already." 

Ciri snickers. "Yes," she admits. 

Jaskier hums. "Well, then you see, I just had to go talk to him."

"Why?"

"Ah, young Ciri," Jaskier says. "You'll understand one day. Dark, brooding, hulking men can be quite appealing."

The words make Geralt's stomach warm. "Jaskier," he scolds, while Ciri laughs quietly.

"Then what happened?" Ciri asks, and Geralt doesn't care for the suspicious little grin on her face and yet he _likes_ it, because Ciri looks more carefree than she has since they found each other.

"Well, Geralt, for reasons utterly unknown, wasn't very charmed by me, or so he said. Nor was he fond of the fact that my songs about monsters weren't truthful enough."

"You were just making shit up," Geralt grumbles.

"Well, yes. My experiences with beasts and monsters were rather limited at the time; what else was I supposed to do? And people don't really want to hear the truth, darling, they just want to be entertained," Jaskier says. "But anyway. Geralt got offered a contract and naturally, I just had to tag along. So I could write a truthful song about a monster and our heroic witcher."

"And yet you didn't." 

"Hush, you," Jaskier says. 

"What kind of monster was it?" Ciri asks.

"A devil," Jaskier says and Ciri draws in a breath.

"It wasn't," Geralt interrupts. "It was a sylvan working for a group of starving elves."

He feels Ciri stiffen against his side. "Elves?" she asks, her voice catching a little.

"Hmm."

"Did you kill them?" Ciri asks quietly.

Geralt sighs. He knows how Calanthe thought about elves, how she treated them, and he has no doubt that Ciri was raised with a lot of biased views and opinions—just like Jaskier had been. 

"No. They weren't hurting people. Just trying to survive," Geralt says. "Humans left them with no choice but to steal to survive. Sometimes what humans think are monsters really aren't, Ciri."

"Geralt gave them his coin, tried to help," Jaskier says and his hand falls onto Geralt's thigh under the blanket, squeezing. 

"I had a friend. He was an elf," Ciri admits softly, her tone sad. "I met him before I met you. He helped me. But… I think in the end he couldn't trust me. Because of who I am. Who my grandmother was. So we split up."

Geralt tightens his arm around her, not sure whether she wants to talk about what she went through after Cintra fell or not, and if he should ask. He hopes his silent comfort is enough, that she knows she can talk to him if she needs to. He tried to tell her that, once, right after they met, but words don't come easy to him and his offer felt awkward and stilted.

"I'm glad you had someone, that you weren't alone, even if it was just for a while," Jaskier says gently. "Sometimes we make friends with the most unlikely people. And even if it doesn't last, it can still be just as meaningful as a friendship that lasts for life."

Ciri makes a quiet humming noise. "Why did you two stop traveling together? I know something happened."

"Ah, darling, I think that's a story for another time," Jaskier evades.

Geralt's jaw twitches, tension seeping into him. "Because I wasn't being a good friend to Jaskier," he says bluntly.

"Geralt," Jaskier chides softly.

"I said some horrible things. And I hurt him. Pushed him away," Geralt continues. 

"But you made up. You forgave him, right, Jaskier?"

"I did," Jaskier says. "We're all good, Ciri, don't worry."

"Good," Ciri murmurs, and for once Geralt is glad Jaskier chose to lie. He can tell Ciri is already getting attached to Jaskier and he doesn't want her to worry about losing him—Jaskier will only leave if Geralt fucks up again and he has no intention to do that. He's going to earn Jaskier's forgiveness, his trust.

They fall into a comfortable silence, the only noise the steady patter of rain and the occasional rustle of clothing when one of them shifts. Geralt turns his head towards Jaskier again, trying to be subtle, until his nose brushes slightly damp hair. 

"When was it?" Ciri asks, sounding half asleep.

"Hmm?" Geralt grunts.

"When you two first met? Have you known each other for a long time?"

Jaskier gives a little snort. "A long time, indeed. Over two decades," he says. 

Ciri makes a small sound, but then she suddenly straightens and peers at Jaskier. "You don't look that old," she says. "Unless you were just a kid when you met."

"Ah, yes. _That_ ," Jaskier says and lets out a small, almost nervous laugh. It's not something he talks about, a secret he shares with very few, well-kept due to the fact that Jaskier rarely stays in anyone's life for long. "Smart girl, noticing right away. It took even Geralt a while to realize. There's a bit of fae blood in my family; just a smidge, but enough to slow down my aging."

"Fae," Ciri murmurs, sounding a bit awed. "Can you do magic then?"

"Afraid not, my dear. Like I said, it's just a smidge. I'm mostly just an ordinary human," Jaskier says.

"Not very ordinary," Geralt mutters, and Jaskier pinches his thigh.

"Hush, you. And I'm taking that as a compliment whether you meant it to be one or not," he says. 

Geralt hums and gives him a small smile, which Jaskier returns full-force.

"You're worse than my grandparents," Ciri complains, but she sounds amused.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jaskier asks.

"Oh nothing," Ciri says with a small laugh and sags back against Geralt's side. She tugs the blanket higher around herself and Geralt frowns.

"Cold?"

"It's fine," Ciri reassures, and Geralt feels a sliver of pride of how well she's been handling life on the road, after everything that has happened. Even when it rains and they're cold and wet and food is whatever they can forage, she hasn't complained about it once. He isn't sure what he expected, but he certainly assumed Cintra's princess would be more spoiled.

"If the weather clears and we make good progress, we should be able to make it to a town by tomorrow evening," he comforts her, rubbing her arm to offer more warmth. "Sleep in a bed, have a hot bath and some decent food."

"Do we have coin for that?" Ciri asks.

Geralt bites back a wince. "There might be a contract," he says.

"I have a bit of coin," Jaskier adds. "And I can make enough for a room and food if I perform, don't you worry, princess."

"A bath would be nice," Ciri admits, and Geralt hums in agreement.

  
  
*  
  


There's no contract in the next town, but Jaskier negotiates getting a room for free for performing. Geralt knows the poor innkeeper doesn't stand a chance against Jaskier's charm and Ciri's sweet, no doubt pitiful expression. They cooked up a plan on the way into town and now Ciri stands pressed against Jaskier's side, her hand in his, while Jaskier hashes out an agreement with the woman, probably looking at her just as dolefully as Ciri. 

Geralt stays back, trying not to draw attention to himself. Jaskier braided his hair back earlier, so no strand of white can be seen with Geralt's hood up. His hulking form isn't exactly inconspicuous, but Ciri made sure to address him as Eskel when they stepped into the inn.

The innkeeper relents, agreeing to give them a room, and Jaskier pays for dinner and a hot bath to be sent up. 

"I wish we could watch you perform," Ciri says mournfully as she finishes the last of her stew. Jaskier is already done, changing into his cleanest doublet. It's a deep blue piece and Geralt's gaze keeps being drawn to him, watching him do up the buttons, leaving the top few undone so his chemise peaks through, unlaced to show pale skin and dark hair. It's a good look and Geralt feels a flare of possessiveness that's not entirely new, but which he used to ignore. 

"And I'd love for you to be there," Jaskier says, "but it's more important that as few people as possible see you two."

He grabs his lute and gives them both a bright smile. "I'm off. You two have fun, enjoy your baths."

"Be safe," Ciri says, and there's a thickness in her tone that Geralt doesn't like. She's lost so much and she's clearly already attached to Jaskier. He can't really blame her. He denied it for twenty years, but he never would have let Jaskier tag along if he, too, hadn't grown attached to him before they even left Posada behind. 

"Stay out of trouble," he says.

Jaskier huffs. "When do I ever get in trouble?" he asks, and Geralt rolls his eyes at him, which only makes Jaskier grin.

"He'll be fine, right?" Ciri asks once Jaskier has left, sitting down on one of the room's two beds and drawing her legs up to her chest.

"Of course," Geralt says. He goes to sit down next to Ciri, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He can take care of himself, even if he likes to act helpless. He's not going to do anything to risk our cover and draw attention to us. You don't have to worry about that."

Ciri gives a small nod. "I don't like us splitting up."

Geralt squeezes her shoulder. "He's just downstairs, Ciri. He'll be fine."

Ciri looks up at him. " _You_ don't like that he's not with us either," she says. 

Geralt can't deny that. He's not worried about Jaskier, but he still doesn't like that he's not within his sight right now. They're far enough north that Nilfgaard isn't an immediate threat right now, but he'd rather have all three of them together even though he knows that's not reasonable.

"Why don't you go have a bath before the water gets cold?" he asks instead of answering. 

Ciri lets out a small huff. "You can admit you're worried about him," she says and then adds more quietly, "I know you love him."

Geralt hums, neither an admission nor a disagreement.

Ciri sighs and unfolds her legs to stand up. She rubs a hand down her arm. "I need some soap, please," she says. She knows Geralt keeps it in his saddlebag, but she never takes things out of it without asking even though Geralt has told her she could and has made sure there are no sharp weapons or potions in there that could hurt her. 

Geralt nods and gets up as well, heading for his things before making a last minute decision and picking up Jaskier's bag instead, retrieving a piece of fragranced soap that he thinks Ciri will probably like better than the unscented one he has.

"Are you sure he won't mind?" Ciri asks, taking the soap from him when he holds it out.

"He won't," Geralt says. "He always shares it with me anyway. And we'll make a final stop in a town before heading up the mountains to Kaer Morhen; I know a place there where we can get more soap that I think Jaskier will like."

"Alright," Ciri agrees.

Geralt turns away and grabs his swords, sitting down on the bed closest to the door. He can hear the noises from downstairs, the muffled chatter and laughter, the sound of Jaskier's lute, and he finds himself relaxing as he takes care of the familiar task of cleaning and sharpening his weapons while Ciri bathes.

She doesn't take very long, emerging from behind the partition dressed in her cleanest clothes, her hair still wet. 

"Your turn," she says, and Geralt gives his sword another wipe with a rag before packing everything away. 

He follows Ciri's lead, scrubbing himself down thoroughly but efficiently, watching the water become murky. He grimaces, knowing that Jaskier will also want to take a bath later and the water will be less than clean, but they've both sat in filthier bathwater before and at least he'll be able to heat it up for Jaskier again with a quick sign of Igni. It'll be better when they reach Kaer Morhen—they'll be able to get some good, hearty meals, hot baths and nicer beds to sleep in. He longs for that, he realizes, to be able to not just keep Jaskier and Ciri safe but to provide for them properly. 

Ciri is already in bed when Geralt reemerges, sheets drawn up and her hair in a thick plait. 

Geralt stokes the fire and blows out most of the candles so Ciri can get some sleep, and then stops at her bed. "Alright?" he asks. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes. Thank you," Ciri says. 

Geralt sighs and briefly sits down at the edge of her bed. "You're right, Ciri," he says quietly. "About Jaskier."

Ciri looks at him and rolls her eyes, smiling a little. "I know that," she says. "Maybe you should tell him too."

Geralt hums. It's not that easy, but maybe she has a point.

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier is quiet as he enters their room, shooting a furtive look at Ciri's bed. She's curled up, her back to the door, fast asleep.

Geralt, who has been sitting on their bed and mending one of his shirts, gets up as Jaskier carefully puts his lute down. "Good night?"

Jaskier shrugs. "Not a huge crowd, but it was alright," he says quietly, holding up a small pouch of coin for Geralt to see before packing it away in one of their bags. "Enough for supplies and whatnot." 

Geralt hums and brushes past him. "I'll reheat the water for you."

"Thank you, dearest," Jaskier murmurs. He follows Geralt, his footsteps quiet.

"You'll get the first bath next time," Geralt offers, looking at the water which looks even more dubious to him than it did earlier as he casts Igni to heat it up again.

"Nonsense, this is fine," Jaskier says, even though they both know it's a lie. 

Geralt gives him a small smile and Jaskier touches his arm, giving it a squeeze as Geralt passes him. "I'll be quick and join you in a moment. We all need some rest," he says. 

Geralt nods. He returns to bed and finishes mending the last small tear in his shirt before putting it away. Jaskier takes longer in the bath than he did, but he doesn't linger in the hot water for long. Geralt watches him shuffle around the room when he's done, putting his performing clothes away and rubbing a cream onto his face before joining Geralt in bed. He smells like lavender and orange, but the scent is mild enough that it doesn't bother Geralt. Jaskier has always been careful to pick soaps and oils that don't aggravate Geralt, and he's dragged Geralt shopping with him more than once to get his opinion—always careful of Geralt's needs as well as his own. 

Geralt gives him a small smile and scoots back to make more room for him, waiting for Jaskier to settle before blowing out the last candle on the nightstand. 

Jaskier curls up facing him, hand settled on the pillow near his face. Geralt hesitates for a moment, before reaching out and covering Jaskier's hand with his, wrapping his fingers around him. 

"Geralt?"

"Get some rest," Geralt murmurs and squeezes Jaskier's hand briefly, not letting go.

Jaskier exhales, the sound loud in the quiet room. "You too, dear heart," he finally says, voice soft and sweet.

  
  
*  
  


The coin Jaskier makes is enough to buy them supplies while still leaving some to set aside for later. They head further north and spend the next few nights camping. It gets colder the further they travel, the mountains on the horizon still topped with snow while the first signs of spring are visible down in the valleys. They spend the nights huddled together, as close to their campfire as they dare, and it's not comfortable, but it's bearable. Geralt makes sure to find them sheltered places to camp, letting Jaskier and Ciri curl up close to fend off the cold.

They make it to another town after a few days and this time there's a contract for Geralt there. They're in the small room they've booked for the night, Geralt getting ready to head out while Ciri watches him, her arms crossed.

"Why can't we come?" she asks.

Geralt refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose; he's used to Jaskier pestering about tagging along, but now he has to deal with Ciri doing the same and he feels his frustration mounting.

"It's too dangerous."

"I'll stay out of the way," Ciri says. "And I have a dagger." 

"Ciri, I said no," Geralt says, tone a bit sharper. She draws back, eyes wide for a second before she narrows them.

Geralt turns to look at Jaskier, expecting an argument from him as well, but Jaskier just gives him a small smile.

"I'll see if I can perform and make some coin as well," he offers. "Ciri can come watch me."

"Hmm. Keep an eye on her?" Geralt asks and behind him Ciri huffs.

"Of course," Jaskier says and steps closer. He reaches for one of the buckles on Geralt's armor, fiddling with it for a moment before smoothing his hand down the leather. "You come back to us, witcher."

Geralt isn't sure what compels him to do it, but instead of answering, he leans in and places a kiss to Jaskier's forehead. 

As he turns to leave, he thinks he can see a faint flush staining Jaskier's cheeks.

From the description the alderman gave him, Geralt is sure the beast that has been stealing sheep and which attacked a young farmhand is a griffin. They nest in the mountains and usually don't make it this far down into valleys, so Geralt guesses it must be very hungry to settle for an unusual hunting ground like this. A griffin is usually nothing he can't handle, but if it's hungry enough to be forced out of its natural habitat, Geralt expects it to be vicious. 

He tracks the griffin to the forests outside of town.

It's a young one, reckless and aggressive; it gets a good swipe in before Geralt gains the upper hand. Pain erupts in his arm and Geralt grunts, adjusting his grip on his sword as the griffin attacks with another screech.

Geralt spins out of its way, casting Ard to subdue the beast, and uses the short moment that gives him to bury his silver sword deep in its neck.

His arm is throbbing and bleeding sluggishly when he finally rides back towards town, the griffin's head tied to his saddle.

He's nearing town when he spots two figures huddled together by the side of the road; his stomach twists with worry and he spurs Roach on. Even from afar he knows it's Ciri and Jaskier, recognizes them by Ciri's long, blond hair and the sound of Jaskier's heartbeat, which should be like any other human's yet Geralt has always been able to pick it out among a crowd. 

Their meager possessions are lying on the ground next to them.

"What happened?" he asks, bringing Roach to a stop, eyes sweeping over Ciri and Jaskier for any signs of injury or distress. His arm twinges in pain as he dismounts.

"Ah, Geralt," Jaskier says, tone light. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Jaskier, what happened?" Geralt grits out. 

"We simply decided we'd rather camp in the, hopefully no longer monster-infested, woods than sleep in a warm, cozy inn," Jaskier says, but his attempt at humor falls flat, his shoulders tense and his tone forced.

"We got kicked out," Ciri chimes in.

"Why?" Geralt asks, looking at Jaskier with narrowed eyes.

"Don't give me that look," Jaskier says. "Some drunk asshole grabbed Ciri; I made sure he saw the error of his ways."

"Jaskier stabbed him in the shoulder," Ciri says, gleefully. "The innkeeper thought that was a bit much, but I think he deserved it."

Geralt sighs and gives them both another once-over. "You're not hurt? Either of you."

"Ciri's arm is a bit bruised, but I already put some healing salve on it," Jaskier says. "We're absolutely fine otherwise. Can't say the same about your arm, though, can we?"

"It's fine," Geralt mutters. He turns to untie the griffin's head from Roach's saddle. "You have all of our things."

"Yes. Got half of the coin back that we paid for the room, too," Jaskier says.

Geralt nods sharply. "I'll collect the reward and come back. You two stay here," he says and holds Roach's bridle out to Jaskier. "If there's any trouble, get on Roach and leave. I'll find you."

"Alright," Jaskier agrees and takes the bridle, his fingers brushing against Geralt's. "Don't be cross with me, please. I did what was right to protect Ciri."

Geralt hums. "Did you make it hurt?" he asks.

Jaskier's eyes widen a little and then his lips lift in a small, satisfied grin. "Twisted the dagger when I pulled it out."

"Good," Geralt murmurs. 

  
  
*  
  


The alderman isn't pleased, but he gives Geralt the coin they agreed on and then tells him to get out of his town.

"Gladly," Geralt mutters.

Ciri and Jaskier are waiting where he left them, their things strapped to Roach's saddle, ready for them to leave. Given that it's nighttime already, Geralt doesn't make them walk far, just deep enough into the woods surrounding the town that they're sheltered and hidden from view. 

Camp is set up quickly and then Jaskier ushers Geralt to sit down. "Let me take a look at your arm now. I know you're hurt." 

"It's just a scratch," Geralt says, glancing at Ciri who is hovering nearby, worry etched on her face.

"Let me be that judge of that," Jaskier says. "You always say that and it's a lie half the time. So come on, armor off and then sit still and be quiet."

Geralt huffs in annoyance, but he lets Jaskier help him out of his armor and lifts his arms when Jaskier tells him to. The fire he built crackles and casts a warm light around their small camp.

"Ciri, have you ever tended to a wound?" Jaskier asks, tone casual as he peels back Geralt's ripped shirt.

"No," Ciri replies, tone as worried as her expression.

Jaskier briefly stops and sends her a small smile. "It's perfectly alright, darling. Come here and watch me; you can help me a little, too. It's a good skill to have, especially when you travel with a witcher," he says. 

Ciri nods and comes closer, and Geralt watches her face grow paler. "That doesn't look like a scratch," she says.

"It's not that bad," Geralt assures her. The gash on his arm is still bleeding sluggishly, but it's not deep enough to be of any real concern.

"First lesson," Jaskier says cheerfully, "Geralt is a liar. If he says he's fine, never take his word for it and check him over yourself."

"Jaskier," Geralt complains.

"You once told me you were fine while half of your guts were hanging out, dear," Jaskier reminds him and then turns to Ciri. "Second lesson: witchers heal fast and they're tough. This really isn't too bad. We'll clean the wound out and stitch it up and he'll be good as new."

"I don't need stitches."

"Well, tough, because you're getting them anyway," Jaskier shoots back. "Third lesson, Ciri. Geralt doesn't know what's best for him, so you have to make decisions for him and he has to deal with it. If he resists, nag him into submission."

"Jaskier," Geralt scowls. 

"Hush, dearest," Jaskier murmurs. "Ciri, darling. Get the cooking pot and pour some water into it, and then make Geralt heat it up. I'll get bandages and thread and a needle."

Ciri nods, her face serious, and Geralt watches her hurry to fulfill the task Jaskier gave her. She returns and pours the water, and Geralt heats it up with a sign of Igni.

"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.

Geralt gives her a reassuring smile. "Only a little," he says. "Witchers have a high pain threshold."

Ciri nods and turns her head to Jaskier when he returns with the supplies. "What next?"

"We're going to clean the wound," he says, holding up a strip of linen that he dunks into the water. "Make sure the cloth is clean, so the wound doesn't get infected."

Ciri nods and watches Jaskier work. His touch is gentle but steady and by the time the wound is clean, the water in the pot is tinged pink by his blood. His arm is still throbbing painfully, but Geralt keeps perfectly still, trying not to let anything show on his face.

"Now comes the fun part," Jaskier says, giving Ciri another smile. He picks up the needle and threads it, his movements sure and practiced, and Geralt gives Ciri's shoulder a small squeeze with his good hand. 

The first time Jaskier had to stitch him up, he'd been white as a sheet and crying, but his hands had been steady. Geralt knows he still hates having to do this, but he does so without complaint, his stitches neat and precise. 

"You have to pinch the wound together," Jaskier says quietly. "Like so." 

Ciri nods, only a little hesitant, and she watches Jaskier as he starts sewing the wound together. Geralt breathes evenly, ignoring the small pinches of pain as the needle pierces skin. 

When Jaskier's done, he cleans away the blood and spreads some salve over it. "Now we just need to bandage it up. Can you do that?" he asks Ciri. "I'll show you how." 

Ciri nods eagerly, giving Geralt a small smile. "Can I?"

"Of course," Geralt says, nodding encouragingly. He watches Ciri wrap his arm up under Jaskier's tutelage. 

"Perfect," Jaskier praises when she's done. "Good job, cub."

"I didn't do much," Ciri says.

Jaskier gives a small headshake. "No, you did plenty. And you handled it better than I did the first time I had to stitch Geralt up. I cried," he tells her, "and then once Geralt was passed out I emptied out my stomach."

Geralt didn't know the last part, and he can't help the small, fond laugh that escapes him. Jaskier gives him a little grin and then pats Ciri's shoulder. 

"Let's get cleaned up, Ciri," he says. 

Ciri nods and scrambles to her feet and Geralt watches her hide a yawn behind her hand. Then his focus shifts to Jaskier when Jaskier sits up straighter and cups the side of Geralt's face. Jaskier leans in and presses a small kiss to his temple.

"You did good, too, wolf," he murmurs, and then another kiss is placed against Geralt's cheekbone, warmth flooding his stomach. He grabs Jaskier's hand, holds it to his jaw.

"Can you two not?" Ciri asks, making a gagging noise.

Jaskier meets Geralt's eyes and laughs. "Alright. Let's get some rest," he says.

  
  
*  
  


Geralt watches Jaskier flop face-first onto the bed closest to the door, arms spread out and feet hanging off the mattress. "I'm never moving again," he mumbles.

"You want to skip going to the market?" Geralt asks dubiously. He puts his saddlebags down, his swords following.

"Darling. There's shopping and then there's shopping with you. One is fun, the other isn't," Jaskier says. "Wager a guess which is which."

Ciri snickers. 

"Do you want to stay here as well?" Geralt asks. 

Ciri shakes her head, the two braids swaying back and forth. "I'll come join you," she says. 

Geralt nods. He checks to make sure he has enough coin on him to buy what they need. It's their last stop in civilization before Kaer Morhen and they'll have to buy enough supplies to last them a while. It's warm enough that the path to the keep has cleared and they'll be able to leave tomorrow morning, and Geralt has a feeling they're not going to make it back down the mountain again until after next winter. He will need to train Ciri properly and they need to lay low for a while. He or Vesemir might make a trip down for more supplies, but the trail is tricky even during the summer when there's no snow and rain and he's not going to make Jaskier or Ciri leave the keep unless they have to.

"Come on then," he says to Ciri and glances at Jaskier's prone form. "Lock the door behind us, Jaskier."

Jaskier gives a grunt, but doesn't move. 

The town has a decently sized market and witchers pass through often enough that no one bats an eye at him. They know who he is here, and there's no use in keeping his hood up and pretending he's someone else. Ciri and Jaskier are sticking to their aliases though, and Geralt keeps a careful eye on Ciri as they make their way down the cobbled streets to the town's square. 

First on his list of things they need is a cart, so they can haul as much as they can up the mountains. They'll have to make another trip to the market the following day, after Jaskier has performed and made more coin tonight.

"Don't wander off," Geralt tells Ciri as they pass the first stalls. 

Ciri gives him a little grin. "I see what Jaskier meant," she teases, but shuffles closer to his side.

"Menace," he mutters and puts a hand on her shoulder to steer her towards a stall tucked away in the back of the market.

His coin purse gets lighter alarmingly quickly. They procure a cart after asking around, and buy grains and oats, nuts and dried fruit and beans. He lets Ciri pick out some more clothes and buys two new shirts for himself as well.

"Soaps," Ciri says, tugging at his arm and pointing at a stall. "You said we would get some for Jaskier."

Geralt lets himself be dragged over to the stall and Ciri looks over the display with a serious expression, picking up a few soaps to take a sniff under the watchful eye of the vendor.

"Are there any particular scents you enjoy, young lady?" the woman on the other side of the stall asks.

Ciri turns to look at Geralt. "What do you think Dandelion would like?" she asks. "Lavender?"

Geralt nods. "Orange blossom or rosemary, but nothing too strong," he says. "Sometimes something a bit more woodsy, if he's in a mood."

Ciri laughs softly and turns to the vendor. "They're a gift for my father," she says sweetly.

"How lovely," the woman says, though she looks a little doubtful. Geralt has no doubt it's because neither he nor Ciri look like they've had a proper bath recently, nor like they could afford fancy smelling soaps when they last did. 

"He's a bard," Ciri adds, as if that explains it. Judging by the way the woman's expression clears, it does at least a little.

She helps Ciri make a small selection and Geralt pays for the soaps, wincing inwardly at how expensive they are. But he knows Jaskier will enjoy them and the coin in Geralt's pocket is as much Jaskier's as it's his.

"You can give them to him," Ciri says when they move on.

"You picked them," Geralt replies.

Ciri rolls her eyes. "Yes, but he would enjoy getting a present from you, Geralt," she reasons. "You give the person you court gifts; even a witcher must know that."

"I'm not courting Jaskier," he mutters.

Ciri snorts. "No, of course not," she says. "I know how deeply you care for him and he obviously feels the same way, but you're just dancing around each other. It's just…"

"Just what?" Geralt prompts quietly.

"You should hold on to a good thing when you find it," Ciri says quietly, her tone way too somber and knowing for someone her age. 

Geralt gives a small sigh. "We're not letting him go anywhere, Ciri," he murmurs reassuringly.

"Good," Ciri says. "Give him the soaps anyway. It would make him happy."

"Hmm," Geralt grunts.

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier is still asleep when they return to the room with their purchases. He's taken his boots off and pulled his cloak over himself, his breathing soft and even.

"Why don't you take a nap as well?" Geralt suggests, looking at Ciri. "Nothing much to do before dinner and we can watch Jaskier perform after."

Ciri brightens at that. "I've never seen him perform. They kicked us out before he could last time."

On the bed, Jaskier lets out a tired grunt. "Everyone should get to see me perform at least once in their life," he mumbles sleepily.

"Hmm, yes. Wouldn't be fair if only some people on the Continent had to suffer," Geralt teases.

"Geralt," Ciri scowls. She sits down on the bed next to Jaskier and starts tugging her boots off.

"Awful man," Jaskier mutters and flips over onto his back, his eyes still closed. He pulls one arm free from the tangle of his cloak and blindly holds it out towards Geralt. "Come nap, too. Maybe that'll make you less grumpy."

"I have things to do."

Jaskier opens his eyes a little, squinting at him. "They can't be more important than napping with us. Come," he says. 

Ciri looks amused, lying down beside Jaskier. There's a second bed and there's no reason for all of them to sleep in one, even if there's enough room, but Geralt finds himself giving in anyway. He takes off his boots and walks over to the bed.

"Nagging him into submission, remember? Always works," Jaskier says in a loud whisper. 

Geralt grunts and Ciri laughs. 

"Why'd you cover yourself with your cloak anyway?" Geralt wonders.

"Because you took yours," Jaskier replies and Geralt rolls his eyes, tugging at the blanket Jaskier is lying on top of. It takes some wiggling and maneuvering, but eventually he frees the blanket and gives it to Ciri. Jaskier still has his cloak and the room is more than warm enough for Geralt, so he just lies down behind Jaskier, who shifts back against him.

"Tell me the beds at Kaer Morhen are more comfortable than this," he says.

"Hmm. We sleep on the floor."

There's a moment of silence and then Jaskier lets out a pitiful noise. "Geralt. Tell me that's a lie," he says. Geralt doesn't reply. " _Geralt_."

Geralt snorts. "There are beds and they're comfortable," he says. "Spoiled brat."

"Spoiled? Me?" Jaskier says with a huff. "I'm currently lying in bed with a filthy witcher and his equally dirty cub."

"Hey," Ciri complains. "You're just as dirty as we are."

"Yes, and I blame you both," Jaskier teases her and then yelps. "Get your stabby little toes away from me, princess."

"I thought you two wanted to nap," Geralt grumbles.

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier has the entire tavern riled up, clapping and singing along to his songs. He's been playing a mix of well-known ditties and his own compositions that Geralt has never heard before, sticking to mostly fast, cheerful melodies. Ciri is clearly enjoying herself, clapping and laughing at some of the dirtier lyrics—none of them too dirty, Geralt gratefully notes—and there's a carefree grin on her face that makes something in Geralt's chest loosen. 

Jaskier is good for her, making her laugh and smile more, and Geralt has been feeling less somber as well since Jaskier joined them on the road. He's good at that, at easing people's minds and bringing some cheer and lightheartedness to their lives.

He lets Ciri steal a few sips of his ale as they watch Jaskier dance around, winking and grinning at men and women alike. The tavern is growing more crowded and the barmaid seems pretty pleased.

"He's good, right?" Ciri asks.

Geralt grunts in agreement and then glances up sharply as the door to the tavern opens with a little more force than necessary. He straightens as a familiar figure fills the doorway and amber eyes zero right in on him. Geralt grins and finds it returned just as widely.

"Is that another witcher?" Ciri asks. 

Geralt nods and clasps her on the shoulder as he gets up. Lambert pushes past people, towering over everyone else in the tavern, and when he reaches their table in the far corner, Geralt is pulled into a tight, fierce hug.

"Fuck," Lambert mutters into his ear. "You're alright."

Geralt returns the embrace. Returning to the keep for winter always brings with it the worry that one of them won't show up and he has no doubt that his absence this year fueled some concern. 

They pull apart and Geralt gives Lambert a teasing once-over. "Got to eat my share too this winter, huh?"

"Fuck you. I'm in perfect shape," Lambert retorts. "In fact we can head outside and I'll show you just how good in shape I am, old man."

"Wouldn't want you to get hurt before you're even back on the Path," Geralt replies with a smirk. He slaps Lambert's shoulder. "Come sit, have an ale."

Lambert grunts and his eyes fall to Ciri, peering up at them. "And who's this?"

"Fiona," Geralt says pointedly. Lambert meets his eyes.

"Ah," he says and holds out his hand, which Ciri takes with a grin. "Well, it's a pleasure."

"Who taught you manners?" Geralt mocks. 

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Lambert replies. "What are you doing here?"

"Heading home," Geralt says with a glance to Ciri. 

Lambert looks at him and nods. "Need a place to stay, huh?" he asks knowingly. 

Geralt nods. 

"Well, Vesemir will probably be glad for the company."

"Hmm. Did Eskel make it home this winter?" Geralt asks and relaxes when Lambert gives him a smile.

"He was still at the keep when I left. Probably heading out soon; you'll run into each other on the way, I'm sure."

"Good," Geralt says. Ciri steals his tankard again and Geralt gives her a warning look, but lets her. In the front of the tavern, Jaskier effortlessly transitions into another jig that has people stomping their feet along to the melody within seconds. Geralt meets his eyes across the room, and Jaskier raises his eyebrows questioningly and gives him a little grin.

Lambert follows his gaze, craning his head back and then snapping his attention back to Geralt, a grin on his face. "Is that him? Your bard?"

"Hmm," Geralt hums. "Dandelion."

"Dan—right," Lambert says and turns to get another look. When he turns his head back around, his grin is more pointed and he arches his eyebrows at Geralt. "Pretty thing. That explains your pining every winter." 

Ciri ducks her head and laughs.

"I haven't pined." 

Lambert scoffs. "Right. You weren't moping and counting down the days until you reunited with your little songbird," he says and Geralt kicks him hard enough under the table that Lambert yelps. "Fuck you, wolf."

"I see we have company?" Jaskier says from behind Lambert, making all of them look up. He slides onto the chair next to Lambert, eyes briefly resting on his medallion with a smile. "Lambert, I presume?"

"Geralt's mentioned me, huh?" Lambert replies.

"I've met Eskel and you don't look old enough to be Vesemir. But yes, Geralt has also mentioned you," Jaskier says and grins. "Said you were a prick."

"Well, he said you were annoying," Lambert counters and pauses. "I see now that he meant annoyingly pretty." 

Jaskier tosses his head back a little as he laughs. "Oh, so witchers _can_ flirt. I was wondering," he says and winks at Geralt, tossing a heavy pouch to him. "You keep it. Being pretty _and_ rich is just asking for trouble."

"You were really good," Ciri says.

"Hmm, yes. A real pleasure to watch," Lambert says. Geralt almost kicks him again.

"Lambert," he growls. Lambert, the prick, just laughs and Jaskier joins in, before slapping a hand on the table and getting up.

"Geralt, dearest, look after my lute. I'll get us more ale."

Ciri clears her throat.

Jaskier grins and presses a hand to his heart. "And some water for my darling daughter, of course," he says with another wink. 

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier offers for Lambert to sleep in their room, and despite the fact that the flirting tone of their conversation irks Geralt, he can't deny that he is glad to have Lambert close by.

The mood turns a bit more somber once they reach their room and the door falls shut behind them. Lambert's easy smile slips and he clasps Geralt on the shoulder. "Is it true that Nilfgaard is looking for you then?" he asks, keeping his voice low.

Ciri stiffens, the corners of her mouth turning down.

"All three of us," Jaskier says, looking up from putting his lute away. He runs a hand through his hair and comes to stand next to Ciri, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

"Well, no safer place than Kaer Morhen," Lambert says. "I'll return to the keep with you then."

"Lambert," Geralt starts.

"Four witchers are better than two," Lambert says. "Eskel will agree."

"I can't ask that of you."

"You didn't," Lambert says. "There'll be no wolves walking the Path this year. The Continent will survive."

"I think it's a good idea," Jaskier admits.

"Vesemir will kill us," Geralt mutters.

Lambert scoffs. "Oh please, he'll be too happy to see his favorite pup return," he mocks. "And he's been curious about the human who had you all twisted up… and apparently doesn't age the way humans should."

"Smidge of fae blood," Jaskier says. "Gives me many more years to be annoying. And pretty."

"Lucky fucking bastard," Lambert says and nudges Geralt in the ribs, and Geralt bats his arm away. 

"Well, amusing as it is, watching you," Jaskier says, glancing at Ciri who is leaning into his side. "Ciri seems to be falling asleep standing up and I'm knackered, too. Can you two share a bed without killing each other? I'll share with Ciri."

"No promises," Geralt mutters.

  
  
*  
  


The snow has mostly melted, but the trail up to Kaer Morhen is muddy and slippery, and Geralt is glad Lambert is there to help him keep an eye on Jaskier and Ciri. They do better than he thought, though, and they make good progress. At night, he and Lambert take turns keeping watch, and while there are some traces of monsters that roam the mountains, nothing attacks them on their way to the keep.

A day before reaching Kaer Morhen, they run into Eskel. He looks puzzled, hand on the hilt of his sword before he relaxes, and when they're close enough, Geralt is pulled into a hug that's just as tight as Lambert's had been.

"You're okay," Eskel says. "We heard things."

"I'm fine," Geralt assures him and tightens his arms around Eskel briefly before letting go.

Eskel nods and then looks from Ciri to Jaskier to Lambert, raising an eyebrow at the last. 

"Back to the keep, Eskel," Lambert says, almost happily. He's being sincere, Geralt can tell; he's happy about the prospect of not returning to the Path, and Geralt feels a deep ache in his chest. They have winters together, but every time they part in spring they do so knowing it might be the last time. But none of them ever consider not returning to the Path; it's never been a choice and Geralt has never questioned it, never thought maybe life could be different for them. This year will be different for them.

"We have a princess to keep safe," Lambert continues. "She needs training. And we can't leave that to Geralt—the idiot is too distracted by his pretty bard."

Eskel snorts at that and then nods at Jaskier. "Good to see you again," he says, before turning Ciri. "Cirilla, I presume?"

Ciri smiles and gives a little curtsy, something that would probably look regal if she wasn't covered in mud up to her thighs and had dirt smudged over her cheeks, her hair a mess despite the braids Jaskier has been giving her to tame it. 

Eskel meets Geralt's eyes and grins, the scar on his face twisting his features. "Back to Kaer Morhen then."

  
  
*  
  


Geralt knows Vesemir must have seen them coming hours before they reach the keep, and he doesn't show any signs of surprise when he meets them in the courtyard. He just looks at them all, exasperation etched onto his face, and then nods curtly.

"Get the horses settled and come in," he says. "I'll see if I can stretch the stew enough to get everyone fed."

"I'll take care of the horses. You can go on in," Geralt offers, and while everyone else agrees and heads inside with their packs and supplies, Jaskier stays behind. "Jask."

"I'll help."

"You don't have to," Geralt says, but Jaskier takes Roach's bridle with a dismissive noise.

"Roach would never forgive me if I didn't see to her," he says. "And I promised her an apple if she got us up here safely."

"Didn't trust me to get the job done?" Geralt scoffs, but he can't help the hurt that colors his voice and he knows it's ridiculous.

Jaskier sends him a sharp look. "Geralt of Rivia, don't you fucking dare even imply such a thing," he says. "I've trusted you with my life since that day in Posada and I always will."

"Jask."

"Hush," Jaskier says. "You insecure fool of a man. _Unbelievable_."

Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier peers at him and then huffs, a sound which Roach echoes, tugging a little at her bridle. "Let's take care of the horses," Jaskier says. "Come on, lead the way."

Geralt nods silently and directs both Eskel's and Lambert's horses to the stables, Jaskier following close behind. They take their time, unsaddling the horses and brushing them down, and Jaskier is unusually quiet. 

Geralt would think he's seriously upset, but he just seems lost in thought, and when they're done, Jaskier suddenly reaches for him. He curls his fingers around one of the leather straps running across Geralt's chest, giving him a tug. Geralt allows himself to be pulled forward, held in place, Jaskier staring at him intently with bright blue eyes.

"Why can I never _truly_ make you see, hmm?" Jaskier asks. "You're the center of my life, Geralt." 

"Jaskier," Geralt says helplessly, not sure how to reply, to tell Jaskier that he isn't good enough for him, that he deserves better and Geralt doesn't know how to be better. He's been doing his best, he _wants_ to be better.

Jaskier gives him another tug, frustration clear on his face, and Geralt lets his forehead rest against Jaskier's, his hands settling hesitantly on Jaskier's hips. "I'm sorry."

"I know, darling," Jaskier says. 

"I'm trying to do better," Geralt says.

"You _are_ ," Jaskier assures him. "There are things we should probably talk about. Figure out."

"Hmm."

"Don't grunt," Jaskier chides, a small smile on his face. "I know you hate talking, but we have to. About what we want, what this is… about Yennefer." 

Geralt feels the muscles in his body lock up, pain flaring up in his chest.

"Darling?"

"She's dead," Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier draws back, a startled look on his face, his hands falling from Geralt's chest. "What?" 

"Sodden," Geralt says and frowns. "They say nobody survived the battle."

Jaskier visibly relaxes and shakes his head. "I'm not sure where you heard those rumors, but they're not true. Yen is very much alive," he says. 

"Are you sure?" Geralt asks, hope rising in his chest, a lump in his throat.

"I _saw_ her, so yes. She's as unpleasant and alive as ever," Jaskier snarks, but his tone is soft, almost fond. "I had a bit of a close call with Nilfgaard; I didn't know they were looking for me and closing in, and she helped me out. She wasn't in great shape, but she was alive. Triss was with her."

"Fuck," Geralt mutters and swallows thickly. The surge of relief he feels is almost painful, making his chest tight.

"I didn't know you thought she was dead. I assumed you two still talked, at least. Never could keep you apart for very long," Jaskier says. "I would have mentioned it sooner had I known. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Geralt grunts.

"So. You thought Yen was dead," Jaskier says haltingly. "Is that why…"

He trails off and waves his hand between them, his expression now guarded.

"No," Geralt says and he reaches for Jaskier, closing the distance between them once again. " _No_."

"Alright," Jaskier says, giving him a hesitant smile. 

Geralt doesn't give him time to say anything else, or pull away again. He leans in and kisses Jaskier. He should have done this sooner—should have done this during these last few weeks. Should have done this on top of the mountain when Jaskier asked him to leave with him, should have done this during nights they shared a bed in some dingy inn they could barely afford or when they slept curled up together under the open sky. Should have done this years ago, decades ago.

Jaskier makes a quiet noise against his mouth and brings his hand up to Geralt's cheek and Geralt tugs him even closer, deepens the kiss. Jaskier's lips are cold and chapped and he smells like mud and rain and sweat, and Geralt lets out a pleased rumble as he licks his way into Jaskier's mouth, slips one hand around him to settle on the sweet curve of his ass. 

A loud, restless neigh from Roach breaks them apart. Jaskier looks a little flushed and mussed and he laughs, the sound soft and surprised, and then presses close again for another kiss, gentler and sweeter. 

"Let's go inside," he finally suggests, and the reluctance in his voice makes Geralt smile. 

  
  
*  
  


It's a surprisingly quiet dinner. Geralt is sure Vesemir has questions, but he leaves them be for now and Geralt suspects it has less to do with how obviously dirty and exhausted they look and more to do with Ciri's presence. The last few months have been grueling, trying to find Ciri and running from Nilfgaard, with the added weight of all of Geralt's fuck-ups on his shoulders, and sitting at the large oak table in Kaer Morhen's hall, finally relaxing for the first time in months, Geralt feels drained. There are aches in his body he hadn't noticed before and he's looking forward to finally sinking into the water of the hot springs and washing away the grime and sweat and tension.

Ciri's energy is fading quickly and she hasn't made it through her bowl of food before she starts sagging against his side. Geralt adjusts his posture a little so she can rest more comfortably against him, lets her fall asleep with her head on his shoulder as he spoons the last of his stew into his mouth. It's watery, as expected, but it's hot and there's also bread to fill their bellies. 

"I'll get Ciri to bed," he says when his stew is all gone, glancing down at Ciri's sleeping face. She's still pretty filthy even though she must have cleaned up a little while he and Jaskier were in the stables, the dirt on her face gone, but a bath will have to wait until tomorrow.

"I've lit a fire in the room down the hall from yours," Vesemir says. "Should be warm enough with some additional furs for the night."

"Thank you," Geralt says and jostles Ciri gently. "Come on, cub. Time for bed."

Ciri mumbles something under her breath, but she sits up, blinking blearily. For a moment, she looks confused, then she relaxes and Geralt gives her a small nudge. 

"I'll show you to your room," he says. He glances at Jaskier, raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

"I'll clean up here and then bring the rest of our things up, if someone shows me the way," Jaskier says, nodding.

"I'll clean up," Eskel says. "You go, Jaskier." 

"Come on then," Geralt mutters, before Jaskier can argue. 

The three of them make their way up the stone stairs at the far end of the hall, carrying their saddlebags, satchels and Jaskier's lute. Geralt points Jaskier to their room and then goes to show Ciri to hers. The fire has warmed it up a little and Geralt pulls furs from the trunk by the end of the bed.

"This should keep you warm," he says. "You need anything else?"

Ciri shakes her head, already looking half-asleep again. Geralt smiles and squeezes her shoulder.

"Jaskier and I are down the hall if you need anything," he says. 

"Good night," Ciri mumbles with a yawn and then she takes a step forward, and Geralt's arms wrap around her in a hug. 

He makes his way back to his—and Jaskier's now—room. Their things are sitting by the end of the bed and Jaskier is standing by Geralt's desk, leafing through a bestiary. He looks up when Geralt enters and smiles.

"It's very you," he comments.

"The book?"

"The room," Jaskier says with a small laugh. 

Geralt looks around, trying to see it through Jaskier's eyes. There's not much there. A big bed, a fireplace—that too has been lit, presumably by Vesemir— with furs in front of them, a few chairs, a dresser and a desk. He doesn't have a lot of things, some books and parchment, some potion bottles on the dresser, two old swords mounted on the wall. He wonders what it will look like a few months from now, with more colorful clothes strewn around and pieces of parchement scribbled with snippets of songs and poetry. Jaskier will probably find other knick knacks around the keep that he'll deem pretty and bring into their room. He's used to traveling lightly, but Geralt has seen what his room in Oxenfurt looks like after a winter of teaching and he knows Jaskier always has a few random, useless things at the bottom of his satchel that he carries around until he needs to make room for other things. 

"It's not much," Geralt finally says and goes to his dresser to find clean clothes that he left behind. 

"I like it," Jaskier says, coming up behind him and slipping his arms around Geralt's waist. "I bet the view of the mountains is magnificent in the morning. And if we light all those candles you have scattered around, it would be quite cozy. Romantic."

He nuzzles Geralt's neck, hips pressed flush against Geralt's. Geralt hums and twists in Jaskier's arms, nips at Jaskier's jaw and presses a kiss to the same spot.

"Bath first," he says.

"Right. _Hot springs_ ," Jaskier murmurs appreciatively. "Let me find my cleanest dirty clothes and then lead the way, my darling witcher."

"You can borrow some from me," Geralt says. The thought of Jaskier in his clothes sends a flash of possessiveness, of satisfaction through him and he presses the bundle of things he's picked out for himself into Jaskier's hands before pulling out another shirt and braies for himself.

"There are some soaps in my saddlebag," he says. "Ciri picked them out for you at the market."

"She did?" Jaskier says, lighting up and hurrying over to Geralt's bags. "That's so sweet of her."

"She wanted me to tell you they're from me," Geralt admits sheepishly. "She thinks I need to give you presents."

"Does she now?"

"Hmm."

Jaskier gives him a smile over his shoulder. "And why would she think that, darling?"

"It's… what you do," Geralt says stiffly and watches Jaskier pull the wrapped soaps out from among his things. 

"Do when…" Jaskier prompts, stretching the last word with a teasing tone. 

"You know the answer to that," Geralt says gruffly, because he's not going to utter the word courting. He's not _courting_ Jaskier—he's a witcher and Jaskier has his way across the Continent and back and theirs isn't a _romance_ that young nobels dream of.

"I don't need gifts," Jaskier says, his tone softer, fond. "Now, I appreciate them, as much as anyone would. But you don't need to give me things to win my affections or prove yours to me. All Ciri has known up until recently has been life at court and while I'm sure Calanthe's idea of a proper gift were the bloody heads of her enemies rather than jewelry and such trinkets, I need nor want neither of those things. Ours is hardly the life of nobles and courts, darling."

"You're a noble," Geralt points out.

"I was born one, but I chose not to be one," Jaskier counters. "Give me things if you want to, but not because you think you have to."

"You deserve someone who gives you things," Geralt admits, not meeting his eyes.

Jaskier sighs. "There you go again with your insecurities," he says and steps closer to Geralt, slipping his arms around him. "You give me things. You hunt for food when we're on the road, you let me steal your cloak when I'm cold, you mend my clothes when I rip them. You give me stories, Geralt, and that is the greatest gift you could give me other than your attention and affection, and I have both of those as well, don't I?"

Geralt hums. 

"Then you give me exactly what I need, dear heart," Jaskier says and kisses his jaw. "Now. I was promised a bath, please. Gods know we're both in desperate need of one."

  
  
*  
  


"Oh, this is even better than I imagined," Jaskier says as he sinks into the water with a groan that is almost indecent. 

Geralt is already half-hard just from watching Jaskier undress, revealing pale, dirty skin while grinning cheekily at Geralt, no doubt knowing exactly what he was doing to him. Geralt doesn't particularly like agreeing with Lambert, but Jaskier is _pretty_. Unfairly so. His foppish clothes hide the breadth of his shoulders and lean muscles, the perfect curve of his ass. There's something almost delicate about his face, but the rest of him is all male and Geralt can finally think about what he will look like spread out under him without guilt flaring up. 

"What are you thinking about?" Jaskier asks quietly, smiling at him as he cards wet hair out of his face.

"You," Geralt replies.

"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier crows, moving closer in the water, "are you entertaining dirty fantasies about me?"

"Hmm."

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. "Oh no, _no_ , darling. You don't just get to grunt and not tell me all the details," he says and comes even closer. Geralt is sitting on a stone bench at the edge of the pool of water, arms spread out along the ledge, and Jaskier rests his hands on his thighs, coaxing them apart to stand between them, water lapping around his navel. "Tell me. Tell me how you've pictured me, how you want to have me."

There are countless answers to that, countless ways in which Geralt has thought about Jaskier. And then there are things he knows Jaskier likes, because Jaskier has recounted his many dalliances in way too great of detail and because sometimes Geralt had been right next door when Jaskier took someone else to bed, the sounds filtering through the inn's thin walls. He knows what Jaskier sounds like when he sinks into a hot, willing body, knows the moans and gasps he lets out, the needy pleas for more, when he gets fucked. He wants all of that and more.

Jaskier's hands travel up higher on his thighs, squeezing, and Geralt dips his hands underwater, sliding them around Jaskier's slim waist to rest on his lower back. His pinky brushes against the dip between his cheeks and he slips it a little lower, leans in and noses at the curve of Jaskier's neck.

He listens to the soft, excited gasp Jaskier makes.

"I want," he starts and gives Jaskier a little tug, "I want all of it. Want to taste you, touch you. Want to make you come."

Jaskier brings his hands up onto Geralt's shoulders, warm water sluicing down his skin, and lifts himself up onto Geralt's lap, straddling his thighs. Their cocks brush, both of them hard, and Geralt groans, nips at Jaskier's neck. He pulls Jaskier closer, lifts his hips to rock them together. 

Jaskier moans and buries one hand in Geralt's hair. He grinds against Geralt, water lapping around them in small waves as they move together and Geralt lifts his head to kiss Jaskier. His finger dips a little lower, rubs down Jaskier's crack without reaching his hole, and Jaskier squirms and tightens his hand in his hair, the flash of pain making Geralt let out a growl of pleasure. For a while, they stay like this, kissing and rutting against each other, their cocks sliding together between their bellies, enough to make pleasure coil tightly in Geralt's gut, but not enough to bring him off. 

Finally, he lets go of Jaskier with one hand and breaks the kiss, adjusting their positions so he can reach between them and curl his hand around them both as much as he can.

"Fuck. Yes, darling," Jaskier hisses, rocking up into his hand eagerly. Geralt starts stroking them, water easing the way, and Jaskier lets out a sharp gasp. He leans in, presses sloppy, needy kisses to Geralt's mouth, his chin, his jaw, lets out whimpers and moans that spill across Geralt's skin. Geralt groans quietly in return, catches Jaskier's lips in another searing kiss. 

The position isn't perfect, the angle awkward, but Geralt doesn't care. Jaskier is naked and wet and squirming on his lap, letting out the sweetest sounds, and it's perfect. 

It doesn't take long before they both spill, almost at the same time, Jaskier getting louder as he nears his orgasm and tumbles over the edge and Geralt follows with a low groan, stroking them through it until his touch becomes almost too much. 

Jaskier sinks against him, shoulders trembling and Geralt pulls him close.

"That," Jaskier says, voice breathless and raspy, "my dear, was magnificent."

Geralt lets out a laugh and adjusts Jaskier on his lap, holds him closer, naked and sated and still smelling like the road.

Eventually they move apart, peeling away from each other, skin sticky from the hot steam and sweat. Jaskier stands with a small groan, flushed pink from the heat. 

"I should have known bathing with you would end with me being dirtier instead of cleaner," he says, but he doesn't sound like he minds. Geralt grins a little.

"I thought you liked dirty," he teases.

"Sometimes," Jaskier concedes, waggling his eyebrows. "But not the 'mud in your hair and smelling like horses and dirt' kind. So you better scrub up thoroughly if you want my mouth anywhere near your cock, darling."

The thought of Jaskier's mouth around him almost makes him choke on his own spit and Jaskier grins knowingly.

"Give me the soap, bard," Geralt says roughly, holding out his hand. 

"Yes, dear," Jaskier replies with a laugh.

  
  
*  
  


Jaskier's skin is still damp and warm and he tastes like the orange blossom soap he used. Lying between his splayed legs in their bed, Geralt hums against the curve of Jaskier's neck and then follows the line of his collarbone down. His hands smooth down Jaskier's sides, enjoying the way Jaskier squirms. 

He moves lower, kisses a trail down Jaskier's chest to his stomach, then lower still. His cock is lying hard against his belly, the tip damp with precome and Geralt lets out a low rumble at the musky, salty scent. His chin brushes against Jaskier's cock, but he ignores it in favor of pressing more kisses to the soft skin of Jaskier's tummy. He swirls his tongue around his navel, dipping it in, and Jaskier shudders. 

"Darling," he pants.

Geralt hums and squeezes Jaskier's hips. He lifts his head and looks down, at the pale clean skin and red-flushed cock, the dark curls and heavy balls. The smell of Jaskier's arousal is heady, but Geralt doesn't let himself be deterred. He trails his hands lower, slides them to the insides of Jaskier's muscled thighs and then underneath, lifting Jaskier's legs up and out. 

"Oh fuck," Jaskier curses.

Geralt chuckles softly and scoots down lower, so he can duck his head down between Jaskier's legs. He noses at his balls and kisses the spot behind them, slips his tongue further back to lick over Jaskier's furled hole and savor a taste of him.

"Gods. Fuck, Geralt," Jaskier spits. "Please. _Please_ , do it."

Geralt hums again. He adjusts Jaskier's position a little, lifts his hips up so he can reach him better, and swirls his tongue over the tight entrance. He feels the muscles flutter, hears Jaskier moan, and he keeps licking and kissing, teasing the tip of his tongue over Jaskier's hole until he's wet with his spit and Jaskier is writhing impatiently. Jaskier's fingers bury in his hair and he groans, undulating his hips as if he wants to rut against Geralt's face, fuck himself on his tongue but doesn't dare. Geralt gives his thighs a squeeze and presses in, just the tip of his tongue, feeling the muscles give around him, and licks in deeper, fucking in and out shallowly.

"Geralt," Jaskier slurs. Geralt hums, smiles at the way the sound makes Jaskier shudder and gasp.

One of Jaskier's hands leaves his head and Geralt reaches for him blindly, grabbing him by the wrist before he can touch himself. He draws back and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand.

"Not yet," he says. 

Jaskier bites down on his lip, chest heaving and face flushed. "I'm so fucking close," he pants, trying to tug his hand free from Geralt's hold.

Geralt grins and shakes his head. "Want to be inside you first."

"Fuck. Okay, _okay_. Hurry," Jaskier says, eyes dark and needy. 

Geralt shifts and leans over Jaskier, grabs the vial of oil from the nightstand. He pours some into his palm, slicks up three fingers, and then leans down to kiss Jaskier as he slips his hand between his legs. One finger sinks in easily and Geralt only pumps it in and out a few times before he presses a second finger in alongside it. Jaskier groans into his mouth and spreads his legs wider. He's hot and tight around Geralt, muscles fluttering and relaxing as Geralt works him open.

"Good?" Geralt checks when he finally presses the tip of a third finger against Jaskier's hole. 

"Yes," Jaskier pants. 

Geralt watches his face as he pulls out and pushes back in with three fingers. The fit is tight and Jaskier briefly scrunches up his face at the intrusion, nose wrinkling and mouth twisting.

"Been a while," he admits, breathless.

Geralt hums and goes slower, working his fingers in deeper with small thrusts until Jaskier's face smoothes out again, until he can slide in and out without any resistance. Jaskier clutches his shoulders, fingers digging into skin and muscle, and rocks down onto his fingers with small moans.

"Feels good," he says. "I'm ready, Geralt. Want you in me."

Geralt twists his fingers, presses against Jaskier's prostate to watch him whine and squirm and then pulls out slowly.

"Turn around. On your knees," he murmurs.

Jaskier brushes sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, cheeks flushed pink, and his usually graceful movements seem shaky as he flips around. He pushes himself up onto his knees, shoulders down on the mattress and cheek pressed into the pillow, ass perfectly presented to Geralt.

Geralt bites back a curse at the sight, at the easy way in which Jaskier does this, lets him have this. He picks up the oil again and slicks himself up, giving his cock a few slow strokes. There's heat pooled in his gut; he thought the earlier orgasm would abate some of the burning need he feels, but he _wants_. Years and years of trying not to think about this, of staving off fantasies and trying to find satisfaction elsewhere and now he isn't sure he'll ever be truly sated, will ever get enough of Jaskier.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nuding against the puffy, oil-slick rim of Jaskier's entrance, and then presses in with one hand on Jaskier's hip. They both moan at the first breach. If Geralt thought Jaskier was tight around his fingers, it's nothing compared to how he feels around his cock, heat gripping him and then slowly giving way, letting him in.

Buried deep, he stills, gives Jaskier time to adjust. He rubs a hand down his spine, feels him relax, waits until Jaskier tells him to move. He rolls his hips, goes a little harder and deeper with each thrust, listens to the way Jaskier's moans and gasps get louder, needier with each one. His hair falls into his face, his hands grip Jaskier more tightly, as he fucks into him, again and again, and watches the way Jaskier curls his hands in the bedding, smells the musky, satly scent of precome and sweat.

"Jask," Geralt rasps. He drapes himself over Jaskier, nuzzles his throat, and the new angle makes him shift inside of Jaskier, shortens his movements, sharpens them as he grinds into him. Jaskier lets out a punched out sound and a tear rolls down his flushed, round cheek.

Geralt stops moving, holds himself still. "Jaskier?" he murmurs.

"Keep going," Jaskier slurs, blinking, his eyes wet, and Geralt nips at his jaw, kisses the same spot. "You're so fucking big. Never been so full."

Geralt hums and rocks his hips forward, watches the way Jaskier's mouth parts around a gasp. He turns his head, nuzzles Jaskier's neck as he grinds into him, pleasure rolling down his spine. "Hmm. Good?"

" _Yes_ ," Jaskier keens.

Geralt makes a pleased sound and slips a hand around Jaskier. He doesn't stop moving, fucks into him over and over, hips grinding against the firm, supple curve of Jaskier's ass, and curls his around Jaskier's cock.

It only takes a few strokes, his breath hot against Jaskier's neck, and Jaskier gasps out a silent cry. His muscles contract around Geralt as he comes, and Geralt grunts, ruts into Jaskier needily, the coil of pleasure tightening in his belly, and he bites down on Jaskier's shoulder as he spills inside of him.

They collapse in a heap, Geralt's weight pinning Jaskier down, and he nuzzles and kisses Jaskier's neck, giving little rocks of his hips until he goes completely soft and Jaskier is making small, hitching sounds. 

"Shh," Geralt murmurs and then slowly, carefully, pulls out and rolls off him. He turns, pulls Jaskier against his side, and feels satisfaction deep down to his bones.

Jaskier is in his arms, smelling sated and content, and Ciri is sleeping peacefully down the hall, Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir in their rooms. 

Sleepily, Geralt noses Jaskier's neck and trails a hand up and down his stomach with slow, lazy strokes. 

Down in the south a war is brewing, Nilfgaard's soldiers are marching. But here, his pack is hale and safe, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Other places you can find me: [twitter](https://twitter.com/whispered_story) | [tumblr](https://whispered-story.tumblr.com/)


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